Page 150 of Save Me

My license to carry came in handy. And the two motherfuckers who would’ve attacked Kennedy had she shown up went along with my story since they didn’t want to confess to attempted kidnapping.

They’re still in police custody.

I’ll have to figure out how to get those bastards later. Now, I need to figure out how to get to Blackmon.

For the moment, though, I must go inside and explain what happened to Kennedy. That this meeting was a setup. I know she’s pissed, but when she realizes her safety was in jeopardy, I’m sure she’ll see my reasoning.

Instead of pulling into the garage, I climb out of my car and head to the front door. I pause and remember that I put in a new code since Kennedy knew the old one. Pushing out a deep sigh, I punch in the code before placing my palm against the lock scanner.

“Alarm disengaged,” the scanner beeps and releases the lock. The other locks around the entire house disengage as well.

I push open the door but stop short. I can barely get it open. From what I can see inside, there’s stuff scattered everywhere. It takes some force, but I manage to push the door open.

Once inside, I see broken table and chair legs in a pile behind the door, which prevented me from opening the door all the way. There’s a trail of glass that leads from the door toward the kitchen but also splinters off toward the living room.

I stop at the living room and find Kennedy sitting in the center of it, surrounded by torn pillows, glass, and the remnants of what used to be the couch, I suppose.

Slowly, she lifts her head to look at me.

The force of her glare almost knocks me back a few steps. People say if looks could kill, they would be dead, but it’s not until this moment, right now, that I truly understand what that means.

I’ve had people look at me with disdain and even hate before. My father looked at me with eyes that wished I was never born.

This is different.

It’s as if something shattered in her eyes. A look I’ve never seen before from anyone.

“Kenn—” I say while I step toward her.

“Don’t,” she says in a gravelly voice. “Do not take another step in my direction.”

I stop at the entryway, surveying the scene in front of me. Her eyes are watery as if she’s been crying.

She sits among a pile of broken wood and glass, presumably from the furniture. I notice a trickle of blood running down her arm.

I move toward her. “You’re bleeding …”

“I swear to God, I will rip your fucking heart out of your chest if you take another step in my direction.”

She grabs a wooden stick that must’ve once belonged to a chair or the couch and wields it like a baseball bat.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster.

“I will hurt you a lot worse,” she promises.

I don’t move. Not because I’m afraid of being hurt but because I can tell she doesn’t care about hurting herself right now. I don’t know if she feels the cut on her arm.

“Baby, what—”

“I’m not your baby.” She takes a few steps back, although I haven’t moved. It’s as if she can’t bear even being within a few feet of me.

My breathing starts to get shallow as my chest feels like it’s constricting.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, Dae? What are you sorry for? For locking me in your fucking house?” she shouts at the same time she throws the wooden stick at me.

I duck, and it narrowly misses me. She picks up another broken wooden stick.

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